by Marata Eros
“And your marital prospects?”
My exhale is hate on breath. “I'm working on that.” I lean forward, letting the crystal snifter dangle between my semi-slack fingers, dangerously close to empty.
I'd need ten of these to numb me before my father's scrutiny. The old fucker is consistent, I'll give him that.
“I'm desperate for grandchildren, you know.”
“Yes.” I don't look at him.
“Allen, look at me.”
My eyes rise reluctantly, finding a shade exactly like my own. Bastard.
“Your mother and I…” Orson spreads his hands.
“She's not my mother, as you damn well know.” Heat suffuses my face.
Orson nods. “True, however she does stand in her stead.”
My birth mother died due to a rare complication when I was born. There's been a precession of blonds with perfect teeth, tits, and tight asses since.
Because Orson Rothschild was not picky about anything else. He had a wife, and he didn't take another until last year.
The bitch was my age and hopelessly stupid, like the others.
“I liked the potential surrounding the young teacher.” Orson taps his chin.
He should like her, he originally brought her to my attention then encouraged Samantha Brunner to make the introduction.
“Kristin?”
I hate him, and a simmering loathing threatens to boil over. Like his puppet, I swam to the bait like a hungry fish.
He absolutely remembers Krista and his own involvement, but he also enjoys his theatrics.
No one else does.
“Krista Glass,” I bite out. Hell, he practically chose her.
Orson snaps his finger. “Ah yes, fine girl. A girl from a very different family, circumstance, and social circle than our own.” His smile is secretive, as though something only he is privy to amuses him.
Orson’s smile makes me think, Shark.
Wouldn't he love to know I’ve fucked every girlfriend he ever had? Some weren't so willing.
I fucked them anyway. I wanted Daddy Dearest to have my sloppy seconds. The slut girlfriends were always too scared to tell Orson Rothschild he had a rapist for a son. It'd be my word against theirs. And how could a fifteen-year-old boy act on those impulses, surely?
Easily, as it turned out.
A flutter of adrenaline beats through my veins, and dissipates just as quickly as it came.
It's the quiet defiance that keeps me going. The little fuck yous I sprinkle about like fairy dust allow me to survive these cock-tug soirees. If it weren't for all the small deviant acts I committed behind my father's back, I never would’ve lasted without killing him. But then I wouldn’t have the money…
I lift a shoulder, smoothly entering back into the game. “She's had a change within the parameters of her teaching. We've not moved forward because she's busy.”
Actually, the little bitch just cut me off with a “let's be friends” line, as though I’m a cartoon character she no longer wants to look at.
Orson's eyes, so like my own, glitter like the tropical seas I've visited since I was a boy. I've been everywhere on my father's expansive yacht.
All the sights that allure most leave me cold. I will marry Krista Glass, chuck her overboard, and entertain female harems with my father's billions.
After she's birthed a few children, of course. A fleet of nanny's can take care of the brats while I have my fun.
“Allen?”
I jerk my face toward the sound of Orson's voice.
He must have said something, but I missed it while scheming my future. That pastime has, of late, consumed my thoughts.
“Apologies, I was a million miles away.”
“Yes, you were.” Orson clears his throat. “In an effort to protect my assets”—his eyes pierce me, seeming to look directly into my treacherous, black heart—“and you are my most precious.”
I maintain a straight face by imagining losing this elusive fortune and am pleased to discover how well that mental imagery works.
Orson continues, “I have contracted my team to investigate Miss Glass thoroughly.”
Rage and defeat sing through me like the thrill of adrenaline did just moments before. But this—Orson digging around Krista's background—is the final insult.
I move to stand, and he throws up a palm. “She is the perfect choice. I don't want another girl.”
“Why can't I marry one of the women from our own inner circle?” I beat the armrest, nearly slopping the remainder of my beer over the fine crystal rim of the snifter.
“That's not something I can divulge at this time, Allen. However, suffice it to say, when you have recouped your rightful inheritance, all will be brought to light. Or if need be, sooner.”
Orson leans back, artfully tugging the heavy silk pantleg at the knee and crossing his legs. After setting his brandy on a nearby table, he steeples his fingers, staring unblinkingly at me.
How I despise him.
“What if Krista doesn't want to take the next step?”
Orson spreads his fingers. “That is not my issue. Persuade her.”
For the first time, I see a glint to Orson's eyes as he emphasizes that word.
Right then, an epiphany strikes me—perhaps, the apple doesn't fall very far from the tree.
Who knew?
*
The documents are delivered by courier.
Inside are things about Krista Glass that even she might not know about herself.
Tapping out a message to my personal assistant, I chuckle. Oh, what monetary resources can provide. Excellent. My assistant answers immediately with the only response I require:
Yes, of course.
Reading the handwritten note from Orson for a third time, my eyes stutter over the message: Use this information to woo, Allen. I do expect a degree of creativity.
Her parents aren't really her parents. That's a biggie. And the tidbit about her “scholarship,” that she supposedly earned… I snort.
There is no way in our current climate of diversity handouts that Krista Glass, Miss Caucasian, would be awarded the type of scholarship she enjoyed at the University of Washington. That is precisely what she and her pseudo parents have been led to believe, though.
I'm uncertain how this information helps me woo her. But if knowledge is power, then I can at least blackmail her into becoming my wife.
The third item, and the most puzzling, is what I hope to use, but don't know if it's significant to Krista.
A sex trafficking ring has their eye on the elementary school where she teaches.
In particular, they hope to acquire certain children from neglected and underprivileged environments.
Just the type of imbeciles Krista teaches.
Though her current students certainly do not belong in that particular category.
Brett Rife. Corina Style and Dwayne Carson: three morons, all illiterate adults. They have nothing in common except their stupidity, which is plenty for me.
However…
I type out an email, encrypt it, then press Send.
I will use my own expensive team to flesh out the character of those three.
The more you know. I hated that one big idiot on sight, for thinking he could have a woman far above his station. Brett Rife is nothing more than an animal posing as a man, probably employing every manipulating tactic because he's got the hots for teacher.
And Krista is far too soft to tell him she has me, a real man, who can actually provide something for her.
It's probably a dalliance, which will be easy to stop.
Permanently.
I shoot a predatory smile at my female assistant when she walks in.
Naked.
Orson hired her. She fucks on demand. As long as I don't come inside her honeypot, I can do what I want.
“Yes, Mr. Fitzgerald.” Her voice only quakes a little.
I get a painful erection just hearing that small shiver of fear in h
er tone.
“Hands and knees.”
Abbi turns, showing me her back. Faded bruises meet seamlessly with new.
I love my work.
I watch her rear end go up like an offering as she takes her hand, as I've instructed, and parts her pretty pink pussy lips.
In my haste to drop my pants, I almost trip. Finally, I manage to kick them off and drop to my knees directly behind her. I pull out the lube I carry in a small tube always in my front pocket. The shape and size mimic lip balm very closely.
After loading my cock with the slimy stuff, I stab myself inside, and Abbi bites her lip to keep from screaming, which is also a major turn on.
I pound her unmercifully, until her forehead touches the carpet of my luxury office, and she's mewling.
When I’m close to coming, I say hoarsely, “Turn.”
Abbi knows the drill.
I tear out of her, my cock aching, and she rolls over and opens her mouth, tipping her head back.
I gag her with my prick, shooting my cum down her throat.
“Ah!” I yell into my office, grabbing her head and ramming it to the bottom of me, lips to base.
She doesn't fight.
Abbi knows where that leads.
“So good,” I say, still pumping inside her wet mouth. Finally, I drag myself out from between her lips.
She stares at me, her disgust and disdain plain to see.
But we both know who that's for. Her.
Orson Rothschild pays her well to keep my demons at bay. God knows it was a challenge to not let them take over when I've been with Krista.
I smile down at Abbi. She’s Krista's surrogate.
But the real thing is this close.
I can taste it.
“Get out,” I tell Abbi.
She leaves, nervously licking the remnants of my cum off her lips, and I wait for my team's intel on Krista's current students.
Chapter 16
Trainer
I try not to stare at her.
Not really managing it.
Adjusting my cock, I steal another glance. She's back to dunking a salty fry in her shake.
We're at a diner because Krista says it's her favorite. Since she doesn't seem to ever lie, I took her at her word.
“You not gonna pretend to be on a diet and have a salad or somethinʼ?”
All girls are on diets. The sweet butts are always trading secrets about how to stay skinny.
“Hate green food.”
No salad, I guess.
Krista laughs, dragging a soggy fry out of the shake, then slides it in a mouth that was on my dick an hour ago.
I try to shake the image but can't.
Can't hide my huge boner that well underneath the cheap cafe table, either.
“I'm not into exercise, really,” Krista says.
Can't hold back my smile.
Krista's face turns red, and I know she's thinking about what we just did.
What we've been doing for a solid day.
She puts down the shake, and flipping both hands over, palms facing the ceiling, she leans forward and slides her hands toward me. My big hands engulf hers.
I lean forward too, until our faces are an inch apart.
“I love the exercise we do together,” she admits in a hushed voice.
Me too. But I'm not sure I should say shit like that. Saying how I feel got me beat. Yelled at.
Told I was dumb.
The shit I been through hardened my feelings; the memories tough to shake.
Krista's hand leaves my hold, and she cups my jaw. The tight spot deep inside my chest starts to burn.
“You can say what you want to me, Trainer.”
I want to say so much more than Krista knows. Probably things she doesn't wanna hear.
Bad shit.
Like some of the bad shit I already told her.
Haven't told her about Arnie yet.
I take a deep breath. “I like you a lot,” I say on the exhale, and realize how bad that sounds.
But Krista's smile is worth it.
“Thank you.”
Thank you for liking me, her face says.
How could I not? She's this hot girl who treats me like I'm the only person in the world who matters. Krista doesn't just fuck me. She loves me when we're together.
And. I might love her. A little.
Nothing is more dangerous than that feeling I'm starting to get for Krista Glass. Makes me want to run.
Makes me want to never let go.
*
Our hands are laced together as we stand in the movie theater line.
Don't have to read good to watch a movie.
I open my mouth and catch a piece of popcorn Krista tosses at me.
I crunch it, asking through a buttery mouthful, “Do you always eat like this?” I'm impressed by a girl that can keep up with my large eating habits.
“Only when I'm happy,” she says.
Our gazes lock, and I jerk her against me, squishing the popcorn bag. Kernels ooze out the top and scatter to the ground like buttered snow.
My chest swells. The burning there begins to melt my guts. I know what the feeling is. Not had it much, but I recognize it.
Happy.
This girl I'm starting to trust is the reason.
But the feeling might not stay. And I can't say how I feel. Words don't come easy.
“I know.” Krista rises on her tiptoes, pressing her fingers between our lips.
She kisses her own fingers, and I swear I feel the heat of it through our flesh, lips tingling.
Krista rocks back on her heels, grinning up at me. “I see you.” Her hand goes to her heart, and that's when I realize that my muddled words aren't necessary.
Krista Glass doesn't need them.
She gets me.
*
Krista
This is so wrong.
Then why does it feel so right?
My eyes follow Trainer until he's a black rumbling dot disappearing out of sight.
Hugging myself, I let myself in my condo then slide the dead bolt behind me. He followed me after I picked up my Fiat from Starbucks all the way home.
Now he's gone, and I feel empty.
Silence greets me from the barely lit space. I didn’t turn on the heat, but because June's been so cold, that wasn't the smartest move. With a small shiver, I twist the thermostat knob, kicking it to seventy-two. Grabbing a hoodie off one of the five hooks hanging on the wall, I toss it on.
Without Trainer’s heat to warm me, I feel cool. Cold.
My body remembers Trainer—and his touch.
Heat suffuses my body as tactile memory sinks in for the long term.
I told Trainer I had to get home because I have class the next day. I can't go back to casual with Trainer—we're so much more than that now. But I need to teach him too.
I head to the kitchen in my tiny condo and set the kettle on to boil. I grab a Good Earth teabag from the tin and get a teacup from the cabinet, setting it on the countertop by the stainless sink.
The water won't boil faster if I watch it, so I turn my back on my kitchen and make my way to my dinky bedroom.
When I open the door, a big guy is sitting on my bed.
That alone should have made me pee my pants, but this man? My second-long perusal says he's as big as Trainer, but he wears menace like the leather vest he's got on.
Whirling, I sprint through the house on the way to my front door.
The teapot whistles a shrill tone, splitting the air, and at that precise moment, my feet lose contact with the ground.
He's got me.
I swing my head back, giving myself a teeth-shattering jolt as the back of my skull makes contact with his forehead.
“Fuck!” a bellow comes from behind me.
He drops me.
I spin.
Then I'm against the door by my throat, and pale-gray eyes are fixed on me like twin slits of iced smoke.
“So you're
Teacher?”
What? I try for words, but my throat's pretty much not working because this crazy man is holding me up by it.
“Ya gonna try to head butt me again, scream, or ball kick?”
Actually, I was kind of contemplating all three.
He clearly sees the direction my wheels are spinning.
“Don't like hurtinʼ women, but I'll sure as fuck subdue ya. I'm hell on wheels at that.”
I believe him and give him a jerky nod, and he slides me down the door.
Pressing my palms against the wood panels, I say, “Who are you?”
It doesn’t come out intelligibly because my throat's still messed up. I clear it then repeat my question.
“My brother, Trainer? He's got the hots for you.”
I'm super confused now. “So you hide in my bedroom and strangle me?”
Crossing my arms, I glare at the man I thought was an attacker. “You make zero sense. I guess you won't kill me, but I need to understand why you broke into my house to wait in my bedroom.” My fingers go to my throat, and I try to quell the racing of my heart.
“Yeah…” He rakes his dark-blond hair into a ponytail and ties it off at his nape. Out come some cigarettes, and he makes like he's going to smoke.
“You are not smoking in my house!” I yell. “Who the hell are you? Forget it—get out!” I point at the door as my fingers circle the knob.
“Nope. Got shit to discuss.” He stabs an unlit cigarette at me. “And you're gonna listen.”
“Really?” I spit out, raising my eyebrows. Unbelievable.
“Can you shut that fucking thing up?”
Tossing him a second glare, I move quickly to the stovetop and take the screaming kettle off the burner.
I turn, and he's striding to my small sliding glass door. He unlocks it, yanks it open, then steps onto the Juliette balcony. Just like the name implies, it's a one-butt accommodation, little more than a perch.
This dude doesn't mind. Leaning up against the rail, he lights the cigarette, shooting out three successive rings so quickly, they collide.
“Huh,” I say.
“Better?” he asks, waving the cigarette around.
“Yes. I don't want my house polluted with that garbage.”
He snorts, taking another drag, and smoke streams out in a clean line with his next exhale, muddying the air between us to an opaque wall.
